She rolled from her back, to her side, and then finally onto her stomach. Her eyelids fluttered, and as tired as she was, she couldn’t force sleep. Every time she closed her eyes she heard the smacking sound of her father’s mouth tearing chunks from her mother’s flesh as clear as if she were back there with them. The nagging fear of nightmares unsettled her, and guilt for treating Foster the way she had, made her want to apologize. The sheets twisted around her legs like a cocoon. She wrestled her feet free, pushed the blankets aside, and headed downstairs. The fire had died down, but the air was much warmer than in the rest of the house. A silver mp3 player on the last of its battery glistened in the dim lighting and Foster lay, stretched out on the couch and sleeping to the sound of whatever was loaded on it. The pistol in his lap, and the fact that he was still wearing his glasses, said he hadn’t intended more than to rest his eyes.
